


Fragments of a day, a life, a NBC page

by yuletide_archivist



Category: 30 Rock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      For the most part, I ran out of time - sorry!<p>Written for kelseyyyy</p>
    </blockquote>





	Fragments of a day, a life, a NBC page

**Author's Note:**

> For the most part, I ran out of time - sorry!
> 
> Written for kelseyyyy

 

 

The best thing about New York:

Everything - TV -it's just like being in the movies! - once, he saw A-list movie star Gwyneth Paltrow on the street, just walkin' around like she was a regular person! - his job - everything! - with the buildings lit up all year 'round it's just like Christmas all the time, they look so gosh darned pretty - his page jacket and his job - everything! 

Mr. Donaghey walks past with his assistant trailing eagerly one step behind him, and Kenneth thinks, Turkey on rye, lettuce, pickle, no sauce - too sloppy, Kenneth, we're running a business here, and smiles to himself, proud. He's still got it, and by it he means perfect recollection of people's sandwich orders. As Mr. Donaghey passes, Kenneth overhears him say,"This is a secret between me and you, Jonathan. Do you hear me? No one else is to know. Not even, and it pains me to say this, Lemon - but its for her own good-"

"We'll be like brothers!" Jonathan says. "Blood brothers. With a lifelong bond. Which transcends all other bonds." 

"Okay," Mr. Donaghey says. "Cool it, freakshow." And then they're gone, they're passed, they're rushed away. His phone rings, he tabs the call open on his switch.

"You've reached NBC's TGS with Tracey Jordan, this is Kenneth." He smiles when he says it, beams actually, 'cause people can always tell. It's just good manners really. 

"Uh, hey," says a familiar voice. "Hey, is, uh, Liz Lemon there?"

"Who may I ask is calling?" Kenneth says, pen hovering at the ready over his notepad. 

"Uh, just tell her its, uh, Conan.. she'll know who that is."

Kenneth almost explodes with excitement. "As in, Conan O'Brien?" he says. "Mister... mister, Sir! Sir O'Brien! Mister O'Brien! I am one of your most enthusiastic fans!"

"Oh.." he says. "Really. That's.. that's really nice. Thanks. But, uh, could I really just speak to Liz?"

"I love that bit you do.." he lowers his voice unnecessarily. "You come out, you spin around, and then you do the funniest dance-"

"Oh, the- the string dance? Yeah. You like that, huh? Well, that's nice- that's really- but hey, is Liz there at all?"

"Ohhhh." Never has there been someone unhappier to depart bad news than Kenneth Ellen Parcell. "I'm afraid Ms. Lemon is just in rehearsal right now, she can't come to the phone."

"Oh, um, can you get her to call me back then? She has the number. Thanks." And then, for no reason, Conan O'Brien just hangs up, all in a hurry. It's lucky he's in show business, because that? Is not super polite. 

He writes down on his pad: Conan O'Brien (!!!!!) called for Liz Lemon.:) Says, call him back, please and thank you! Oh - what about a show where midgets were set up on dates with regular sized people, and then crazy shenanigans ensued! He makes a note of that as well, just as Liz Lemon comes stomping up. 

"Hey, what's up with Jonathan? I just passed him in the hall and he looked like, super happy. Actually, he looked like he was going to pee himself a little bit, but you know, it was that kind of happy." 

"Oh, well, apparently, him and Mr. Donaghey are blood brothers - I think he was real pleased about that.." 

Ms. Lemon screws up her face. "Yeah," she says, shaking her head. "Yeah, I don't think that's true. Hey, have you heard from Tracey? He hasn't shown up at work for like, three days now."

"No, I have not, Ms. Lemon!" He beams at her; she gives a crooked awkward smile back. There's an uncomfortable pause. "Oh," he says. "Mr. Conan O'Brien called for you. He wants you to call him back."

"Serious?" she says. "Conan? That's.. that's weird. Okay, Kenneth, but if you see Tracey, tell him I'm very angry with him. Can you tell him that? Thanks." 

"Yes ma'am! Happy to do it!" He grins up at her, she does that awkward smile thing again. 

"Ah come on, cool it, freakshow," she mutters, and then hurries off. 

\--

Mr. Tracey Morgan turns up at fourteen minutes to four o'clock exactly, walks up singing something in what sounds like German, but isn't, because Kenneth knows German, uses it to read the bible the proper way, and that is not it. 

"Good afternoon, Mr Morgan!" he says. 

"I had sexual relations with three different women last night," Mr. Morgan says. It's okay because he's a movie star. "One of them may have been a monkey. I slapped her bee-hind!" His face stretches up into a wide smile.

Just like in Fat Bitch 2! "Congratulations, sir!" Kenneth beams. "Ms. Lemon is real anxious to see you. She's all cranky because you haven't turned up to work for the past few days - you should have seen her, it was like my Nanna Jesop after she's been drinking the devil's liquid. I never saw my rooster again..."

"Naw Ken, I don't got time for this! I have to reticulate my splines! I'm sleepy. Wake me up.. when it is time."

Grizz says, from behind Mr. Morgan, "Time for what?"

"Time! Time! Leave me alone!" He storms away in the direction of his dressing room - Grizz and Dot Com don't immediately follow, conferring for a minute with each other. 

"I studied computer engineering at UCLA," Dot Com confides. "I don't need this." 

"Hey, hey," Grizz says. "It's what we do." And as they drift away, Kenneth sees - but no, it can't be - 

Or maybe it is. Because Grace has come up, he sees her (svelte, lithe... gosh darnit, what's wrong with him?) out of the corner of his eye, and his head jerks around - and it's her, it's her, a symbol of everything right with NBC and everything right with America - and what's she doing up here, away from the 22nd floor, which is her usual haunt? 

"For you," she says, holding out a pencil. It's a special NBC one 

"Grace, no," he says. "Not.. your pencil. I couldn't do that to you."

"Please," she insists, and presses it into his hand. 

She goes to turn away, but then pauses, looks back at him. 

"I will come back for you.." she says. "My love."

This feeling, it is like a pain inside his chest. "Don't," he whispers (brokenly). "Don't say that. Don't ever say that." 

She puts out a hand as if to touch his cheek, but then withdraws it, blushing furiously, and scuttles down the corridor towards the elevator. This feeling - it is perhaps too painful - but, she gave him her pencil. Her special limited edition NBC pencil. 

"I gave her my heart," he says, softly. There's no one else around to hear anyway, no one else to hear his heart break. "And she gave me a pen...cil. Pencil." It was true; it were right; it was love, it was love. 

He will treasure that pencil with his life. 

\--

Stepping outside the doors of 30 Rock, at 11pm after an exhausting four hours of scraping a chewing gum art installation off the walls of Tom Brokaw's dressing room (those wads of gum have been in his mouth. He has rarely felt so blessed) he swears he can hear the rattle and shush of the corn stalks in the wind - and for a second, he could almost be back home in Stone Mountain, heading outside to round up the dominant male pig for the evening. 

Or maybe that's just the Purple Lady, rattling her tin of seeds to keep the demons away. He doffs an imaginary cap to her, replaces the nonexistent cap atop his head, beams at her; she tells him sincerely of the dangers of ATM machines ("they use them to read your thoughts!" she shrieks); he bows to her in thanks (he is a gentleman, afterall, and she is a lady) - and then gets on his bicycle and pedals away.

He is a NBC page. He is - geographically - a New Yorker. He doffs his hat.

 


End file.
